


Present

by itstonedme



Series: Beguilement Verse [14]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:29:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, wherein Elijah was once a high end escort in Amsterdam who was wooed and won by Orlando, an aspiring London architect.  They met while Elijah was on the clock and managed to overcome the obstacles which Elijah's lifestyle presented, largely because Elijah retired to pursue his passion, becoming a high end chef.  Elijah, however, has kept his finger firmly on the pulse of the escort business by hiring and overseeing his own stable of talent which is managed by his former colleague, Dom.  This chapter, Part 14 in the Beguilement universe, concludes the series.  An epilogue follows.</p>
<p>First posted LJ <a href="http://itstonedme.livejournal.com/70799.html#cutid1">here</a> with reader comments and lovely chapter banner by Stormatdusk</p>
<p>Disclaimer: A work of fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Present

Two more seasons swing by the sun, and the days grow shorter in advance of the winter solstice. By the time Orlando's work day now finishes, darkness has settled upon London for several hours. So busy are both of their schedules, most nights he returns to a vacant flat, the key slipping into the lock to find as much emptiness as it did before Elijah came to live with him. Back then, the silent darkened interior with its street-lit shadows was a sanctuary, a temporary break from the clamour of the office and the streets. Now, though, it is an Elijah-less presence, something momentarily hollowed out by a missing heartbeat, a missing sense of safety. There is comfort knowing that Elijah will call or arrive when his work is finished, but Orlando knows he now lives in a world of interdependence, where if something were to end their relationship, his life would be tossed so high into the air, he already fears the fall.

But for the present, life is good.

 

*

 

"So what day exactly does your school term end?" Ian asks Elijah one mid November morning over the telephone.

"December 14th. No more classes, no more books. I'll be in a kitchen now until the final term ends in April."

"Which kitchen?" Ian asks.

" _The Greenhouse,"_ Elijah replies, a smile dancing all around the edges of his voice. 

Ian knows that sound. "Very impressive," he says, his own smile flirting. Ian is well aware that _The Greenhouse,_ a rather quiet but high end Mayfair establishment, is renowned by international foodists for its fine dining. "How did you manage that, Elijah?" he adds rather redundantly.

"Connections." 

Elijah's use of this term – as they both well know – means that this fortunate circumstance can invariably be traced back to the merits of his naked talents. In this case, the beneficiary of those talents is the long-time lover of _The Greenhouse_ owner's son. In truth, one might as well include the son because it was with the two of them that Elijah experienced a particularly memorable and exhaustive weekend several years back. 

"And so close to home," Ian rumbles, meaning its proximity to his and Orlando's Chelsea flat.

"That too," Elijah adds.

"I think this calls for a party," Ian declares, since any event is sufficient reason for a party in Ian's world. "At mine," he adds. "What do you think about inviting your new cadre of charming men and our favourite clients? The clients who aren't shy, anyway. You have such lovely men now working for you, Elijah." 

Which Ian would know, Elijah reflects with amusement, since he's sampled just about all of them. "Do you think Dom would be feel shunted aside to hear you say that?" he teases. 

Ian laughs and removes his feet from the coffee table. "Our delightful Dominic," he sighs. "He would definitely agree with the sentiment, as you are well aware. Just regard how the charmingly witty young James of Glasgow has managed to distract Dominic from the drama of your abrupt departure. I fear that the pairing of these two may yet cause the Warmoesstraat to erupt in a conflagration. Oh that I were younger and able to keep up with the two of them."

This is Ian's perennial complaint, that he's too fusty or forgetful or whatever to participate as he once had in the pleasures of the flesh. But it's an empty complaint, really, because Ian participates fully enough to leave younger men aching and exhausted, thank you very much. It's simply his way of reminding Elijah that he needs attention. 

"Is this a bald plea for a cuddle the next time I see you?" Elijah laughs.

"If a cuddle is all I am allowed, then yes," Ian whines good-naturedly.

"Let's get together on Sunday before I return home," Elijah tells him. "We'll snuggle on your couch and plan how to pull this shindig together."

"You're welcome to stay over Saturday," Ian offers. It wouldn't be a phone call without him reminding Elijah at least once that his sheets are always warm for him.

Elijah laughs. "Sunday morning, you sweet coot. I'll bring brunch." 

 

*

 

Orlando and Elijah fly into Schiphol the morning of the December 22nd, which is a Sunday. The December weekends of the Yuletide season have been far too lucrative to hold Ian's party any earlier, but things have quieted down this close to Christmas. All of the fellows working for Elijah – Karl, James, Taki, Charlie, Rui and Shahid -- are able to attend the party, as is Dom of course, because like the others, ties to his family have long been broken and he has come to regard the Amsterdam dynamic as the only family he has or needs. For this season, at least. It’s a fragile, transient existence for each of them, in so many ways.

Each escort has put out invitations to their favourite clients and friends. Rashid and his friend Alexander are able to make it – Christmas isn’t part of their celebrations anyway. Ian has invited a few gallery clients who are “in the know” – Michael, for example, and Sean, both of whom have met (and enjoyed) Dom and Elijah’s company over the years. Other guests include a mix of the Commonwealth: Eric from Australia and Marton from New Zealand and two Brits, Richard and a vigorously gorgeous black man from East London with the unlikely name of Idris. There may be others; when Ian sends out an invitation, the response is invariably positive because of the sexual opportunities in the offing, whether with Elijah's boys or with other guests, it doesn’t matter. It will all be terribly gay – no women have been invited.

As much as part of him wishes it were otherwise, Elijah won’t be participating in the preparation of any of the food. Ian has decided to have it catered and delivered so that no one attending has to do other than plate and pour. Elijah's sole input will be to critique every morsel.

 

*

 

By ten o'clock on the night of the party, most of the guests have arrived and are duly liquored. There's a distinct aroma of cologne and musk in the air, and Ian has left the young men in charge of the music, with the caveat that they not annoy the neighbours. Even with the poured concrete encasement of the flat, there's only so much bass and volume that can be absorbed.

Ian's flat is extravagantly large, even by Dutch standards, a penthouse really, except without the altitude. The living room alone is more than 1500 square feet, with a dining area and wet bar forming part of it, upon which the food and beverages have been laid out. Off the wide hall is a home theatre, Ian's office, a spare bedroom, a full bathroom, a laundry room and a storage area, and at the end, Ian's sumptuous bedroom. 

"So," Dom says, sidling up to a friend of his mate James', a short-statured fair-haired Scottish bloke by the name of William to whom Dom has been briefly introduced earlier in the evening. He's a somber, quiet fellow, not really mixing except in spare and polite conversation with some of the other guests. Dom hasn't failed to notice, however, that sweet William can tip back his single malts with nary a waver or flush, which is always admirable. "It's William, right?" he says with a broad smile, clinking the neck of his beer bottle lightly against the Scotch glass.

"Aye," William replies with predictable brevity, a short nod accompanying a wisp of a smile, eyes connecting alertly with Dom's, which Dom finds impressively staggering considering the amount of highland whisky William has managed to imbibe. Not that Dom's been counting. 

"Mind much if I call you Willy?" Dom asks with a flirty twinkle.

"Only if ye want ta find them painted eyes ye've got goan' blackened mar than ye've a'ready made 'em," William replies evenly.

Dom straightens up. "Oh-kay," he says, smile freezing on his lips.

 

* 

 

Karl quite likes these networking opportunities and discovering just who has been fucking whom. He has spent the last fifteen minutes a little star-struck, puffing and posturing around Marton, one of Taki's guests, who has shown an inclination for dark haired, sloe-eyed men -- Taki being Asian -- something Karl's actually drunk enough to think he can pull off if he cocks his head and looks through his brows at the right angle. 

What Karl doesn't know is that Marton and his acting mate, Eric, have already decided that they're leaving Ian's with Taki and Karl safely tucked under their wings for a night of sexual frivolities aboard the yacht they have moored in Naarden, just outside of Amsterdam. For the present, however, Marton is quite content to enjoy the seductive acrobatics Karl is executing to incite his interest, which Marton is keeping aloofly low. He can barely wait to top this ex-pat peacock and then watch Eric do likewise while Taki occupies Karl's other end. The very thought of it has tightened his balls and made his cock swell, and he has to palm himself to rearrange matters.

It's a visual cue Karl would be a moron to miss. Even dead drunk, which he is not, not really, he's whore enough to know when his hook has set. "Would you care to see Ian's bedroom?" he blatantly disgorges, to which Marton raises his eyebrows and the same hand he's used to adjust himself and wags a finger right before Karl's unfocussed eyes. 

"Now that would be rude to our host," Marton says slowly, quietly. "Go tend to what you've got between your legs, if you must, and we'll talk in a few hours. I like to nurture my erections, let them gather force." 

"Jesus," Karl says, rather awed before he can collect himself. "You sure, mate? We could pop one off now and then you can nurture the next one."

"Do you like to surf?" Marton asks, and Karl has to lean in to hear him. Marton speaks like Karl prefers to fuck, now that Elijah's tutored him: with all kinds of slow and sticky softness. "You have to wait for the right wave to build so that you can ride it, savour it, let it take you as far as it can before it washes you away."

"Jesus," Karl says again, wide-eyed. 

 

*

 

"I actually think that your Scottish mate James is going to be successful in pulling that bloke," Orlando murmurs into Elijah's ear, his lips lingering just enough to curl over the shell of skin above the lobe.

"Which one?"

"Over there." Orlando nudges Elijah's head a little to the right. "The sexy ginger fellow in the black Levis."

"Oh Christ," Elijah snickers. "That's one of Ian's art clients. He's transplanted Irish. Name's Michael."

"Wouldn't have thought James would be his type," Orlando says, arms wrapping around Elijah, pulling him back against his chest. "Sectarian history and all. Would have thought he'd go for that cheeky Kiwi you introduced me to."

"Michael likes his men on the smallish side," Elijah replies.

Orlando wants to leave that alone, he really does. But the booze in his bloodstream makes him finally ask, "Did you ever do him?" 

"Ooooh yeah," Elijah smiles, and he giggles and squirms as Orlando pinches him playfully but _hard_ ("That hurt, you fucker!") and pulls him back against his chest. He tries to elbow Orlando, but there's no wiggle room. Instead, he casts an appreciative look back across the room and teases, "He was rather undisciplined. But Orlando. _Gi-NOR-mous_ cock. Massive. Even puts Ian to shame."

" _Waaayyy_ too much information," Orlando laughs because this type of conversation is nothing new; now that Elijah's given up the trade, he has no problem – but only upon request -- selectively sharing with Orlando tales from the boudoir for their mutual amusement. Orlando wrestles Elijah back into the art-strewn hallway only to have Elijah wriggle free and back away from him. 

Elijah's arm is out, the hand up, warning Orlando to stop, but his face is all laughter: cheeks flushed, eyes wide, mouth opened in feigned surprise. He backs down the hallway, away from the living room to where they cannot easily be seen. His hands come up, palms facing, pulling apart from each other. "Huge," he mouths as he walks backwards, palms still parting, now a good foot apart.

Any thought of jealousy Orlando might be entertaining, which he isn't, gives way to slack-jawed incredulity. "No fucking way."

Elijah is nodding, grinning, and he brings his hands back together, his fingers closing into opposing half circles to form something the size of a baseball.

Orlando growls and pounces, his grin devilish because Elijah is so full of shite and the game is now on. Elijah spins away, taking off down the hall and vanishes through the doorway at the end.

Orlando follows, pushing quietly inside what has to be Ian's bedroom, eyes adjusting to the low light, noting the darkened doorway to the en suite on the right and the fact that, except for Elijah -- falling backwards onto the enormous bed in the centre of the room as he grins back at Orlando – they are very much alone. He turns to close the door and notices the lock on it, which he sets before turning back.

"I'm learning something about you," Elijah teases, as the motion of the mattress settles beneath him. "Now that it's safe to go there, I think the thought of me with other men turns you on." He's grinning seductively, a hand sliding down his shirt, over his waist band towards his crotch, where it invites Orlando's eyes. "I think you enjoy imagining what it was like as Michael pulled that monster out and slid it along the crease of my ass."

Orlando's head pulls to the side, eyes still on Elijah, a warning, except that his smile is already a contradiction.

"I admit, there was a moment of sheer terror," Elijah breathes, his hand closing over his clothed cock, his upper lip drawing back a hiss. "He might as well have tried to fist me."

Orlando looks straight at him in amazement and then snorts, which just makes them both laugh, all predatory tension dissipating. "You lying tart," he says, approaching the bed. "He's probably the size of my little finger." He crawls onto the mattress and lowers himself onto Elijah, crotches meeting first, where their mutual intake of breath produces smiles and a little rub before Orlando settles on his forearms and dips to nuzzle below Elijah's ear.

"Got you down the hall though," Elijah says. "And managed to put a little iron down there in Ironman."

"More like the Incredible Hulk," Orlando breathes into Elijah's neck, tongue and lips closing around the soft point of jawbone, "since we're on the topic of big dicks."

"Then Marvel me!" Elijah quips, and Orlando snorts again right into his neck which leaves them both clinging to each other in laughter. "You are such a class act," Elijah says. "Don't ever change."

"What do you want to do?" Orlando asks. "We can't stay here long. You'll be missed."

"You do me, or I do you?" Elijah breathes.

Orlando pulls back and stares at him. "Oh yeah," they both say at the same time to the silent decision they've arrived upon. Orlando reaches for his belt buckle. "Damn. Do you have lube?"

"Christ, Orlando. This is Ian's bedroom. It's probably part of the plumbing." He's already at the bedside table, flipping packets and bottles onto the bed spread. 

Orlando has shed his trousers and briefs, and because he's worn his loafers barefoot, there's only his jersey left. He pulls it over his head and sits back on the bed, bronze in the low light, cock already at full mast. "Don't undress," he tells Elijah.

Elijah stops. He's standing beside the bed, having heeled off his shoes, and his fingers leave off unbuttoning his shirt. They stare at each other, neither one speaking. It's as if they've stepped out of their bodies for a moment and then returned, only to find that they are different within their skins. Slowly, Elijah's hand descends. "So," he asks, "tell me how it makes you feel to be naked while I am not."

Orlando doesn't answer right away. "Loose," he finally says in a low voice. "Wanton." 

Elijah's stare is deliberate, measured, devoid of expression, like his words. "Does it make you feel like a whore?" 

"A little," Orlando whispers, fisting the sheet, eyes riveted on Elijah's. "Yes."

"Do you like it?" Elijah asks. "Touch yourself." He kneels on the bedspread, and slowly unzips.

Orlando twitches involuntarily, a small tremor throughout his body that makes his nipples pip. He loves the detached controlling tone, that impersonal command that wove him into the fabric of Elijah's sheets the first time they met. Despite all that has happened between them since that day, despite all that they have built, he catapults into that memory for an instant: seeing Elijah as he'd first been seen, as the remote and intoxicating beauty who'd reshaped his entire universe of desire and fulfillment. He strokes his cock, his eyes locked on Elijah's. "I don't know. Yes," he finally decides.

"Is this me being you, and you being me?"

"No," Orlando answers. His heart is pounding so hard he's sure Elijah can hear it, see it. "I suspect this is different."

Elijah's chin comes up as if he's figuring something out. "You seem rather timid and uncertain for someone who might like to be a rent boy," he says, pulling his shirt tails out of his trousers. "Is it you'd rather be a slave?"

"Your slave," Orlando whispers.

"My very own sex slave. How novel," Elijah says evenly. "And not a currency note needed to change hands. I have to admit, I find it altogether charming. I like how it makes me hard." He folds back the sides of his fly and reaches into his briefs, pulling out his cock. 

Orlando's eyes follow. He's unaware he's wet his lips.

Elijah isn't. "That's right," he says. "Come now. Show me how pretty your lips can be when my cock is parting them."

This game is all new territory for Orlando, and it's illuminating on all kinds of levels. He can't help but be awed once more by Elijah's ability to decode sexual signals, dig right to his pith. Elijah has been unnervingly astute is assessing something that he, Orlando, wouldn't have been able to pull to the surface so easily: that pretending to be physically used is a particular turn-on. He doesn't think he could ever get his head where it would need to be if this weren't make-believe. He can't imagine how Elijah did it with strangers. Money must be a strange aphrodisiac.

But as often is the case with matters of sex, Elijah is way ahead of him. "The key to being a good slave is to know that no matter what goes on, you're the one in control, even if your head is being pulled towards a cock and you're being called a slut or bitch." He looks down at Orlando and tucks his finger up Orlando's chin so that he looks up. "You read me, bitch?" he smiles.

"I do," Orlando says, lowering his chin and looking up.

And there's something else: he didn't know that playing the sub to Elijah's dom would ring his bell so loudly, but he's quickly become so hard – achingly, painfully hard – that he feels he might blow any second. He clamps down on himself and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply.

"That's it," Elijah murmurs, reaching for Orlando's head, curling his hand around it draw it forward. "What's a man to do when there's not a tie to be found?"

His penis slips between Orlando's moistened lips, deep into his throat, because after more than a year of sharing Elijah's bed, Orlando has perfected a few things and one of them is giving good head. "Yeah, that's it," Elijah sighs.

For a while, there's nothing filling the room but the slick wet sounds of Orlando's mouth mixing with Elijah's dirty whispers and the wail of the Kings of Leon seeping down the hallway. Elijah is cradling Orlando's skull, periodically holding it when Orlando takes him deep, his signal for Orlando to work his throat, and then he tugs back gently while Orlando inhales, so deeply his nostrils pinch. After a few minutes, he pulls away and his cock drops forward so that he can brush it back and forth across Orlando's mouth and chin.

"I want to take you from behind," Elijah says. "Get on your hands and knees."

Orlando does, and Elijah lets at least half a minute go by, long enough for Orlando to feel slightly awkward and restless. He wiggles his hips a little.

A hand presses onto the small of his back. "You don't move," Elijah says, "unless I tell you. You just present, you got it?"

Orlando closes his eyes and presses his lips together. His heads hangs a little lower.

Elijah leans forward and blows cool air onto Orlando's hole and perineum. "How do you like being my slave?" he asks.

"It's okay."

"Just okay?" Elijah straightens up and pushes his trousers and briefs down his legs so that they drop and pool at this ankles. He reaches for a bottle of lube on the bedspread. "Remember, Orlando, just because I call the shots, that doesn't mean you can't find some way to enjoy it. Otherwise, we stop."

"Don't stop," Orlando says immediately.

"You need to relish being my plaything."

"I do. Very much."

"So tell me again: how do you like being my slave?"

"I would do anything for you," Orlando says.

"That's right, anything. Now bow your back and rest your head on the bed."

Orlando does, and just this simple change of position leaves him feeling even more exposed.

"Would you let me invite everyone out there in the party to come in and see you like this?"

"Oh God," Orlando moans. The very thought heats his face.

"If I asked them to fuck you while I watched – and they would, to a man – would you let them?"

"No."

Elijah makes the sound of a buzzer being pressed. "Wrong answer. All I'm asking you to do is think about it, Orlando, only that. Within your head, then, would you let them? Maybe not Dom and Ian because they are our friends. Unless, of course, you were willing."

The sheer thought of Dom and Ian appalls Orlando and he covers the back of his head with both hands. "Not our friends, Elijah," he pleads.

"Fair enough. Not Dom and Ian then. You would let Michael with his big cock, though, wouldn't you."

Orlando groans.

"Maybe not," Elijah reconsiders. "It is a bit of a stretch, if you pardon the pun. But the others – you would let them?"

_How far can I go with this?_ Orlando wonders. "If you asked, yes," he stutters out.

Elijah leans down and places a kiss at the top of Orlando's left thigh, then higher up on the curve of his buttock. "That's good, very good, Orlando." He squeezes out a half teaspoon of lube onto his fingers and slides them over and within Orlando's hole, and Orlando flinches at the suddenness of it. "Sshhh," Elijah soothes. "I'm just getting you ready for all the fucking you're going to have to endure. So many men, such a hungry little ass."

The smut of that comment sets Orlando's heart racing, and he fights to control his breathing. 

Elijah paints along Orlando's perineum and down over his balls, rolling them until they are slick and slippery, then further forward, stroking upwards along Orlando's cock. When he is done, he coats himself, then dries his hand by smearing it across the small of Orlando's back, upwards along his spine until the only lube that's left is on Orlando, sticky and messy.

"I think you'd like Charlie," Elijah says, taking hold of himself and pressing against Orlando's hole. "He's an aggressive fuck, ruts like he's got a demon trying to crawl out of his skin." He grabs Orlando's hips and pulls him back, stabbing into him sharply.

Orlando grunts and jerks, fisting the coverlet. 

"His clients love it," Elijah says, hips pistoning. "All alpha. It's a dog fight when he fucks. Even when he bottoms, clients never know if they'll end up mauled." 

Orlando lets that image swim across his cortex, and although he knows every curve and vein of Elijah's cock, at that moment, it's someone else's banging into him, and the thought of it makes his prick jump.

Elijah pulls out. Taking himself in hand, he slides the head of his penis along the path of slickness he's varnished from Orlando's balls to the top of his crease, pressing Orlando's buttocks together so that he can push up through them. He enters Orlando again. "Eric, on the other hand, is a tease. He's a big man and he likes his boys to beg him for it, so penetration takes forever. And he likes threesomes, likes having his whores in the middle. Tremendous stamina – he can go for hours. He doesn't care if you come or not. You're just a receptacle for him to fill."

Orlando lets the vision take him, let's himself imagine that it's Eric's balls slapping against his own.

Elijah curls over Orlando's back, and slowly slides in. "Marton, on the other hand, fashions himself quite the seducer. It's all about the chase, the build up, the execution. He's actually a very good lover, very skilled, very erotic. Bedding Marton is the full meal deal, Orlando, and he always makes sure his whores come before he does. And he feeds you afterwards. Sometimes you're even the plate."

Orlando's imagination is alive with images of the men just beyond the bedroom door, all in his head, in his ass, their hands sliding over his skin. His arms stretch upwards along the bedspread and he pushes back onto Elijah greedily.

"Yes," Elijah whispers behind Orlando's ear. "You'd like Marton, how he growls as he takes you, mostly in English, but sometimes in Hungarian. _Ez az úr fog mindent kifizetni._ You'd like him a lot, Orlando. _Egy nyelv sosem elég."_

Orlando writhes beneath Elijah. "I think I'm going to come." he breathes.

"Not on Ian's bedspread," Elijah orders. "Do whatever you have to do, but stop it." He pulls out and slick cock bobbing, pads over to the en suite, returning with a hand towel. He tosses it onto the coverlet next to Orlando. "Spread that beneath yourself." Tucking behind Orlando, he grips him by the hips and pushes back in without hesitation, and Orlando stutters out a bracing groan, pulling the towel onto the bedspread beneath his abdomen. 

"Do you think you can come without touching yourself?" Elijah asks.

"I don't know," Orlando groans.

"Try," Elijah bites out. "Concentrate. I want your hands where I can see them." He leans forward and spreads his palm against the back of Orlando's neck so that Orlando has to turn his face to the side to breathe, and the change of angle slides his cock harder against Orlando's prostate. 

"Oh fuck," Orlando gasps, blinking hard. "Oh fuck, oh fuck."

"That's it," Elijah whispers, his head tipping closer to Orlando's ear. "And I don't want you just to pump a few times on the Royal Plush, my love. I want long ribbons of jizz like that first night we met. Do you remember?"

Orlando can almost feel the ghost of Elijah's tongue as it had once licked him clean.

"I want your balls to feel that their only way out is up the length of your cock. You with me?" He slows his thrusts down and starts carving, and every stroke makes Orlando's thighs tremble. "Close your eyes now. Focus."

Orlando does, zoning in on only the senses of touch and hearing, of Elijah's deep and rhythmic breathing, the force of it gusting onto his back, cooling him. He can feel the blood pooling in his groin, filling his hips, his balls, his cock, as if his midsection is becoming an anvil, hard and heavy with a shimmering tingle beginning to spread upwards from his thighs, downwards through his chest. He shivers again as the rest of his skin chills from the sudden departure of blood and he flattens the top of his chest – surely Elijah won't begrudge him that – so that the stiff nubs of his nipples can slide against the fabric beneath him. Upon contact, it's as if strings are tying them to his balls, which pull up, ever closer, but not close enough, not nearly close enough for release. "Oh God, touch me," he cries out.

"Yeah?" Elijah whispers in his ear. "As whom?"

"As you," Orlando whimpers against the coverlet, the pressure of Elijah's hand freezing any movement of his head. "As you, Elijah. Please." 

"That's nice, my sweet. When you beg, you are as pretty as the day I met you. You cry out with so much heart, it's enough to break mine."

"It's my fucking balls you're breaking!" Orlando grinds out, completely dropping role.

Elijah giggles and removes his hand. "Up, my love. Hang your ass over the edge on your haunches and sit up so that I can still get at you."

Orlando gingerly straightens up, careful not to disengage, until he's back on his heels, thighs spread, facing the mirrored closet doors, watching their reflections as Elijah digs up into him. His head drops back. "Please," he says. "My cock."

Elijah swims his palm around his outbound stroke to slick it freshly and reaches in front. There's a tenderness to his touch despite everything that has passed thus far between them because now, it is just him with his beloved – no character, no artifice, no one but the two of them. His mouth opens over Orlando's ear as he whispers his name, his hand collecting Orlando's balls, the other pressing lightly as it frames his abdomen above the root of Orlando's cock, which bobs idly, upright and crimson, against the back of Elijah's hand. 

Orlando freezes and arches, fingertips pressing white stains upon his thighs. "Yeah, yeah," he gasps, eyes closing. "Touch me."

"You won't need me to. Just imagine my fingers, stroking up the sides of your cock, circling the head."

Orlando whimpers and hangs his head while Elijah's slick fingers circle everywhere but his cock, rolling, stroking like a soft tongue.

"If you dirty the linens, I'll make you lick them."

"Fuck the linens," Orlando cries. "You can't tell me they haven't seen worse."

Elijah smiles because Orlando has a point. 

Orlando arches, arches, his pelvis pressing forward in small thrusts, his head falling back next to Elijah's so that he can smell and take in the softness of his hair, his temple. All he can feel is Elijah's shirt as the top of his shoulder blades ride against it, the edges of his ass, the wall of his prostate and the heated tickle that keeps growing there, the delicious strobes of pressure fondling everywhere but where he really needs it. 

Elijah's fingers slowly slip up to squeeze just once along the sides of Orlando's cock, brushing the frenulum only once at the end of their journey, and Orlando is lost. He comes in fractured whimpers, all the muscles around his ass contracting in waves, and he doesn't disappoint: a dozen solid strings stream out of him in decreasing intensity, only half of which find the hand towel. By the time he relaxes, open-mouthed, his back folding against Elijah's chest and his hands slipping from his thighs, nothing remains but the pulses. 

Elijah releases him, his smeared hands sliding up Orlando's chest to pull him back as he angles his lips to find Orlando's. "You are something out of my dreams," he whispers. 

Orlando is spent, completely unable to speak. When the kiss breaks, his forehead slides to the side of Elijah's jaw.

"Turn over on the bed," Elijah tells him gently as he pulls out.

Orlando falls forward onto his hands, enough wits about him to gather up Ian's towel and wipe away the mess he's made as best he can before collapsing onto his stomach and rolling over bonelessly. 

Elijah has stripped off his shirt. He grabs Orlando by his calves and pulls him towards the edge of the bed, placing one of Orlando's legs on his shoulder, letting the other fall to the side. He lines up and pushes in, and Orlando looks up at him, head angled to one side, his smile soft and replete.

"I'm sorry you have to fuck a rag doll," he says, "but it's your own fault."

"That's alright. I love the way you look."

There's nothing more to say to that, really, and Elijah leans over to kiss him, Orlando's hands coming up to frame his face, angling it so that their mouths and tongues can find the greatest access, slipping and probing to match Elijah's languid hips. Elijah catches the towel with one hand and lumps it blindly to the clean side, tucking it under Orlando's head, lips never parting.

"Did I make a good slave?" Orlando asks when the kiss ends.

"The best," Elijah replies, kissing along his cheek and hairline.

"Would I make a good whore?"

Elijah pulls back a little and stares down at him. "Yes. And no," he smiles ruefully.

Orlando knows this shouldn't be a disappointment, but still, it is, sort of. "Why not?" he pouts.

"Because you're too sincere in your love-making. You can't divorce passion from the sex you give. Which is why you became my fix, you know."

"That's all right then," Orlando smiles. "I thought it might be because I wasn't skilled or sexy enough."

"Never," Elijah sighs, zooming in for another kiss. "You walk into a room and heads turn, believe me. Sex wafts from you, Orlando, like an intoxicating scent. Forget about erecting buildings. In another world, you could have been renowned."

"Good," Orlando stretches, satisfied. He hooks his free leg behind Elijah and pulls him in. "Is that really your fantasy, to see me with other men?"

Elijah stops thrusting for a moment. "No," he says, beginning slowly again, his face one of adoration. "That was only for you, for the game. I don't like thinking about you with other men."

Orlando reaches up and strokes his thumbs over Elijah's nipples and Elijah jerks at the touch, his breath catching. "Could have fooled me," Orlando chuckles. "Are you close?"

"Yeah," Elijah breathes, eyes locked on Orlando. "God, you're beautiful."

Orlando lifts his leg off Elijah's shoulder so that he can wrap both legs behind him. "Come here," he says curling up to gather Elijah in, pulling him down and kissing him as he lays back on the bed. He kisses his lips, his closed lids, each temple, and very quietly, Elijah sobs out a cry as his orgasm breaks while Orlando rocks him within the cradle of his body, whispering to him as he strokes his back.

 

*

 

"I need to take a shower," Orlando says as he and Elijah lie facing each other. "I'm sticky and reek of cum."

"I don't want to move," Elijah says, fingers tracing the outline of Orlando's lips.

"Come on," Orlando says, capturing his wrist. "We have to get back."

 

*

 

Behind the doors of the bedroom closet, the ones mirrored with half silvered glass that is basic equipment in just about every psychology office and police station from San Francisco to St. Petersburg and absolutely _de rigueur_ in a McKellen lair, Ian absently strokes Dom's hair. He is fairly trembling by the time Orlando and Elijah go into the bathroom, muscles stiff from sitting motionless for the better part of forty minutes. He settles back against the wing chair and stretches his spread legs to remove the kinks, and Dom, who has been sitting between them up against the seat back, turns and kneels without a word, deftly massaging his thighs. "We can save the post-mortem for later," Ian says quietly. "We should leave while they are in the bath. He didn't even admire my bedstead," he whines, the artist and fop in him offended by Orlando's lack of appreciation for his outrageously carved bed.

"I don't think he was really looking," Dom tells him kindly.

Ian exhales deeply and cups Dom's chin, tilting it upwards. "Thank you, Dominic," he says. "Not only for that sentiment but for arranging this."

Dom takes Ian's hand, turning it to kiss the palm. He's a little melancholy and horny as bat shit. They get up and leave without another word. What Elijah will never know can never hurt him. His presence was never part of the plan – as far as Elijah knows, this was always something intended only for Ian.

Dom gets it now. It's nothing that Elijah said or did during this scene that he and Orlando put on, which was just bedroom fuck play with a spin he suspects Orlando didn't even see coming. But in his heart, he hadn't really grasped the core of their relationship until he saw the degree of physical intimacy the two of them share, the tenderness. He understands now that Elijah not only loves Orlando, he breathes him in. As for his good friend Orlando, well, Elijah is the altar at which he worships. Book closed. 

Right now, though, he needs a distraction and it's not going to come from Ian. He needs youth and verve, something fresh, certainly something or someone who'll bite back, just because. There's that testy little Scot out in the living room who just might fit the bill. He's certainly shown that he's got fight in him, and Dom's more than ready to tangle with him something fierce. _If you won't let me call you Willy,_ Dom thinks, _at the very least, my brother, you're going to show me one._

 

*

 

Orlando shuts the faucets and steps out of the shower. "So," he says, grabbing a bath towel and ruffling his hair. 

Elijah has opted to wash himself with a cloth so he won't have wet hair. He's been waiting for Orlando to join him and now takes another towel to help dry him off. "You did well," he says, scrubbing Orlando's back, kissing the damp skin. "I can't believe you didn't lose it." 

"I nearly did," Orlando says, turning. "A few times. What was that thing from _A Fish Called Wanda_ all about, talking to me in a foreign language? I didn't know whether to laugh or blow. God, that was hot. So much for our script."

"But you're comfortable with what we did?" Elijah asks, taking Orlando's face between his hands, searching his eyes. "You laid yourself pretty open in there."

Orlando covers Elijah's hands, grinning, his brows rising at the double entendre. "Ian has wanted me for years. I think we gave him something to keep him happy."

"I wonder if he'll ever say anything." There's no way in hell Elijah will ever let Orlando know that he suspects Ian wasn't alone. 

When they leave the bedroom a few minutes later, they note that the door is no longer locked.

 

*

 

"Your hair is wet."

Orlando is at the bar, mixing a Bombay tonic while Elijah circulates among his guests. He turns towards the voice and comes face to face with Michael, the Irishman.

"I took a quick shower," Orlando smiles, extending his hand. "Orlando Bloom."

"Michael."

_Ah yes,_ Orlando reflects as their hands meet. _The secrecy of the trade and those who use it._

Michael's gaze is intensely riveting, something Orlando finds mildly disconcerting. It's because he doesn't blink, Orlando realizes. "Can I make you a drink?" he offers.

Michael glances at the glass, the bottle, the mix, and Orlando realizes that despite his stare, Michael's body language is very relaxed, very blokey. And now that he's looking elsewhere, Orlando can't help but check out the crotch of the Levis, given Elijah's press release and yeah, he's got it happening. "Even with a shower," Michael says quietly before his eyes slide back up to capture Orlando's, "it wasn't enough to wash the smell of sex off you."

Orlando gusts out a nervous laugh. Either he's busted or it's his enigmatic _eau d'Orlando_ Elijah was going on about. 

"You're with Elijah tonight."

"I am," Orlando smiles before he brings his glass to his mouth. 

"Lovely fellow," Michael says. "Very giving, very attentive. It is quite remarkable the referral enterprise he has built. Exceptionally discreet, extremely talented." He stares at Orlando with a slightly quixotic smile. "You seem new though," he finally asks. "Do you have a card? If you don't mind, I'd like to call you sometime."

Orlando frowns for a moment, then begins to smile. "I'm an architect," he says, figuring this should set things straight. 

"Interesting," Michael nods, not missing a beat now that he's figured Orlando's not for hire, because this is even better. "I'm a playwright. Last name's Fassbender."

"Where're you from?" Orlando asks, temporarily confused by the surname and the accent.

"Dublin for the present, although I'll be moving to London sometime in the spring."

"I'm living there myself," Orlando smiles. "With Elijah."

Michael's no slouch. The dots are connected in an instant. His face goes blank, just for a moment, and then he's throwing his head back and crowing, his hand landing on Orlando's upper arm and gripping it. "Is my face red?" he says. "Like, _arse-hole_ red? Because it damn well should be." His grin is all gums and teeth, his eyes crinkling in tears, totally lad, nowhere within a mile of the well-knit predator who had approached Orlando. "Fuck me, could I have buggered that up any better? Forgive me, please. I'll have what you're having without the mix, just ice." He motions to the glass.

Orlando drops three cubes in a tumbler and picks up the blue gin bottle.

"Make it a double," Michael says, "and feel free to slip in the cyanide so you can happily watch me die." 

Orlando's laughing now. "I think you just did." He hands Michael his drink and they clink glasses in amity. 

"Am I crossing the line if I tell you you're one lucky bastard?" Michael says. 

"Not in the least," Orlando smiles, his gaze shifting past Michael to where Elijah stands next to Ian, watching both he and Michael with a bemused and curious expression. Orlando looks back at Michael. "I tell myself that every day."

 

_Ez az úr fog mindent kifizetni = This gentleman will pay for everything.  
Egy nyelv sosem elég = One language is never enough._


End file.
